


Maintenance Required

by Whisper91



Series: Downtime [3]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: And Phil loves it, BDSM, Clint is a Brat, Cuddles, Daddy-Dom, Discipline, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Porn With Plot, Spanking, corner time, dom!Phil, sub!clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-05-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 02:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1411762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whisper91/pseuds/Whisper91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes a gentle touch and a slow, sensual descent into subspace isn't what Clint wants. Every now and then he needs to be forced there by a firmer hand. Thankfully he knows just how far he has to push Phil to get what he desires.</p><p>(Phil's more than happy to oblige.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It's on days like this that Clint knows he’s a selfish bastard.

The morning ought to have been nothing short of _perfection_. He wakes up to the warm tickle of Phil’s lips brushing feather-light kisses against the back of his neck, the older man spooning him from behind, one arm circling Clint’s torso to keep him close. The archer smiles and closes his eyes again, laying a hand over the larger one that’s resting on his abdomen, well-rested and comfortable in a way he hasn’t been in God knows how many weeks.

And it’s not _enough_.

He tries to ignore the ache, he really does. Phil’s had a hell of a lot on his plate recently, and their conflicting schedules have kept them apart for almost a week, barely time for a quick kiss and a _“see you later”_ between missions and debriefs and consultations. They haven’t planned on doing anything hard this weekend; it’s supposed to be a chance for both of them to chillax, maybe curl up on the couch together and watch sci-fi. Not that their original plan isn’t fucking _awesome_ , but the growing pulse of _need_ growing inside of him serves as an unwelcome acknowledgement that today he’s going to need something harder, sharper, _more_.

“Morning,” Phil murmurs, likely having heard the change in Clint’s breathing pattern. The older man kisses the shell of his ear and strokes his thumb against the skin of Clint’s abdomen. “Sleep well?”

The archer focuses on Phil’s voice, his touch, the warmth of his skin against Clint’s back, and tries to convince himself that it’s enough for now. He hums, glancing towards the alarm clock on the bedside table and blinking to make sure he’s reading the numbers right.

“Apparently so.” He never sleeps in this late. Weird. “So I guess we’re skipping breakfast today?”

Phil chuckles, a warm puff of breath against his neck, and Clint has to suppress the urge to shiver at the sensation.

“It seemed a shame to wake you,” his partner explains unapologetically. “Figured we could always go out for brunch instead.” He presses another kiss to Clint’s hair. “Or we could stay in and make waffles. Either works for me.”

Clint’s grateful that staying in is an option here. Going out in public is quite possibly the last thing he wants to do today; going out means he won’t be able to attach himself to Phil like a barnacle without attracting attention, he won’t have the freedom to kneel on the floor next to Phil’s chair and be hand-fed waffles without being judged. Yeah, no. Going out _sucks._

“Don’t wanna get dressed,” he grouches, by way of an excuse, and hugs Phil’s arm to his chest possessively.

Phil gives him a gentle squeeze in return, his smile audible as he concludes, “Waffles it is, then.”

Nature’s call soon has Clint sliding out unwillingly from beneath the warmth of the bedcovers to trudge his way over to their en suite bathroom. He misses Phil’s presence immediately, but thankfully his partner seems to share the sentiment, slipping into the bathroom behind him a few moments later and trailing his fingers over the small of Clint’s back as he moves past the toilet on the way to the shower.

“Join me?” he asks, and Clint both loves and hates the offer, because at the moment he wants to plaster himself to Phil for all eternity but he’s also ninety-nine percent certain that he’s going to spend the next ten minutes resisting the urge to drop to his knees and suck him off.

He isn’t wrong. Phil _loves_ touching him in the shower, likes to crowd in close and soap up Clint’s skin with gentle, confident hands. Under different circumstances, Clint would totally be up for that. But not today. Because Phil’s fingers are in his hair, massaging shampoo into his scalp, and it’s so gentle it makes his skin crawl. The tenderness is undeniably glorious, but he doesn’t deserve it, not yet. He needs to suffer a little at those hands first to earn the right to Phil’s touch; needs to shed sweat and tears and feel himself come undone before he can comfortably accept such unconditional affection.

Again, he tries to ignore it; allows Phil to carefully rinse the shampoo from his hair and press kisses along the column of his throat. But it’s like trying to forget about an itch in his _brain_. Virtually impossible.

Phil reaches for the shower gel and sponge next and the ache in Clint’s chest grows tenfold, a resounding _nope_. Before his brain fully registers what he’s doing, he swipes the soap for himself and flashes his partner a quick, wide smile that he hopes doesn’t look as forced as it feels.

“I got it.”

The older man’s eyes linger on him a moment, and Clint feels an immediate swell of guilt that only adds to the ache inside of him, remembering that the whole shower routine is Phil’s _thing_ and he’s supposed to be making this day about his _Dom_ , not himself.

But after half a beat, his partner only returns the smile and steals a quick kiss, before busying himself with his own shampooing.

Clint already regrets opening his stupid mouth.

 

 

 

_**………………………………………………………** _

 

 

 

It’s a long and painful morning after that. Clint soon comes to the realisation that he’s going to need to be more direct about what he wants because Phil’s still being so fucking _gentle_ with him that it hurts, and he’s half ready to start pulling his hair out by the roots in frustration.

Thing is, usually Phil _knows_ what he needs when he gets like this. Usually he doesn’t need to ask. And maybe Clint’s not trying hard enough to show it, or maybe Phil’s not looking properly (most likely the former of the two, since Phil _always_ notices), but either way his situation sucks. Clint’s doing his best to appear nonchalant and unaffected on the outside, but inside he’s an emotional mess of unspent energy and self-flagellation.

The opportunity for a more direct approach presents itself shortly after lunch. They're sitting side by side on the couch, knees lightly touching, watching the tail-end of some crappy daytime TV show which neither of them are particularly interested in. On any other day, Clint would've changed the channel by now, and Phil's already sent him several side-eyed curious glances, no doubt wondering how the hell he's managed to stomach fifteen minutes of  _Home Bargains_  without throwing something at the television set. To be fair, it’s a near thing. He _hates_ daytime TV shows.

Phil makes it to the twenty-minute mark before he finally cracks and nudges Clint gently in the side with his elbow.   

"Pass the remote, will you?"

Clint's hand twitches in an aborted motion to comply, but he halts himself at the last second, sitting up a little straighter and resolutely keeping his gaze on the television screen.

"No."

He can feel his partner pause beside him, sense the man’s calm, assessing gaze, and Clint holds his breath during the beat of silence that follows his blunt refusal. This could go one of two ways: either Phil's going to make an amused, sarcastic comment about having a lazy boyfriend and fetch the remote himself (a gentle dismissal of Clint's opening move in their little game, which will serve as him opting out of heavier play), or he'll go along with it and respond in kind. Clint's got his money on the latter of the two options; in the eighteen months they've been living together, his partner has never previously declined an invitation to force him down. And even though Phil leans more towards a gentle, caring Top than anything else, he’s fucking good at playing it rough, too. Clint’s a lucky bastard.

Phil's voice, when he speaks, is deceptively soft. 

"What was that?"

A pleasant shiver runs through him, a thrill of anticipation for what he knows is soon to come, because those words are the equivalent of his partner saying " _I’m in"_  and Clint's more than ready for this; he's only been daydreaming about it all day. 

"I’m pretty sure I said  _no,_ " Clint annunciates slowly. Then adds, because the need to  _push_  is growing stronger now that he's more confident, " _Sir._ "

"Look at me when I'm talking to you." Phil's tone is still only a few decibels shy of a murmur, and it's terrifying, this 'calm before the storm' persona, setting Clint's heart pounding at a lively Samba against his ribcage as he turns his head towards his Dom and meets the man’s gaze unflinchingly. The senior agent’s expression is calm, but Clint can see the warning signs written in every feature, the danger that lies beneath the mask. 

"I'm going to ask you one more time," he cautions calmly. "Will you please pass me the remote?"

Without breaking eye contact, Clint lifts a sock-clad foot and very carefully, very deliberately, stretches it towards the coffee table and nudges the remote onto the floor. It hits the soft carpet with a dull _‘thud’_.Phil's lips thin (Clint wonders if it's to bite back a grin or if his partner is genuinely pissed off about the potential damage to his property) and his eyes darken. The archer knows he's definitely pushed far enough; they've reached the point of no return and nothing except his safeword is going to save him now. Thank god.

Phil points towards the far side of the room, his countenance growing sterner. "Nose in the corner. Right now."

Fuck. Corner-time. Clint hadn't seen that one coming. He'd hoped that he'd pushed enough to warrant an immediate physical punishment, but apparently Phil's going to do a little pushing himself tonight. The far left-hand corner of the room has unofficially dubbed the 'naughty corner' for months now due to its suitability for that purpose - with no furniture or fittings nearby, it's horribly blank, and allows his Dom to stand either side of (or behind) him without objects getting in the way. Phil’s spanked him there before. He’s fucked Clint’s throat there too, on one glorious occasion. But its primary purpose is to torture the archer.

Clint has an ongoing love/hate relationship with corner-time. He loves the thrill of being put there, the anticipation of what always comes afterwards (a sound spanking over his Dom's knee, if he's played his cards right), and the toe-curling pleasure of knowing that Phil's hungry eyes are on him the whole time. But he also loathes how painfully time seems to drag when he's stood there squirming with his forehead pressed against the wall, how it serves as an unwanted delay prior to the main event, and Phil  _knows_  how much he hates waiting for a spanking, which undoubtedly is why he's sending Clint there now (that bastard).

A strong hand curls around his wrist, startling him from his inner musings, and starts tugging him to his feet. Clint's eyes widen with the realisation that he's inadvertently given Phil another, harder push by neglecting to obey a direct order, and he strains against the hand that's pulling him, finding a thrill in the freedom he's been granted to  _act out_  so atrociously. He loves being good for Phil, he truly does, but sometimes it’s nice to be a total _brat_ too, safe in the knowledge that the only consequences will be a sore bottom and a time-out, and that Phil will be there to soothe the pain with tender touches and quiet words of praise when it’s all over.

His Dom begins to stride across the room towards the corner, Clint in tow. "You've just made this a lot worse for yourself, little boy."

"No, sir, I'm sorry!" he protests, his voice a little strained (because ‘little boy’ always drops him several increments further into a hazier headspace, even when he’s fighting the plunge), trying to squirm his wrist out of the man's grip - to no avail. "I was going, I swear!"

"Too late," Phil tells him calmly, and brings them to a halt about two feet away from the corner. He stands beside Clint, putting one hand on his waist and bracing the other between the archer's shoulder blades, urging him to bend over at the middle, his side anchored against Phil’s hip. "Put your hands on the wall."

Clint's breathing has already quickened, but it stutters to a halt at that, knowing exactly what his Dom intends to do. And  _fuck_ , he’s more than ready for it; he's hard as a rock and leaking in his pants, and nothing's even happened yet. He bites his lip and presses both hands against the wall either side of the triangular point of the corner, sucking in a sharp breath when Phil's finger are suddenly on his fly, unfastening his jeans briskly and tugging the fabric down past the curve of his ass.

"I'll deal with your appalling attitude and your blatant disregard for the rules in a little while," his Dom informs him factually, baring his backside with mortifying efficiency. "This is for disobeying me. When I tell you to go and stand in the corner, I expect you to do it."

The first swat is bullet-fast and punishingly hard against his unprotected rear, and it's a good thing Phil made him brace his hands against the wall because the force of it sends him rocking forward a good few inches, a startled, desperate  _"Guh!"_  exploding from his lips. And Phil doesn't given him time to catch his breath. Alternating from one cheek to the other in a rapid, brutal rhythm, his Dom lands swat after scorching swat, quickly igniting a hot sting in the delicate flesh of his rump and stoking it up to a fierce burn in thirty seconds flat. Phil's arm around his waist keeps him pinned to the agent’s side, unable to squirm away (despite his half-hearted attempts; he doesn’t _want_ it to stop, but he can’t resist fighting back a little). It's a brief but devastatingly thorough warm-up that lasts no more than two minutes, and Clint's a shivering mess by the time Phil's hand finally settles on his burning skin to rub slow, soothing circles into his cheeks.

He's so hard it  _hurts_ , and they've barely begun. His knees feel weak beneath his weight, his head a little fuzzy as Phil moves to stand behind him again and levers him upright, wrapping his arms around Clint from behind and brushing a kiss against his hair. His ass smarts against the rough fabric of Phil's pants, but the hug feels so fucking good (and if he's being completely honest, so does the scratchy burn of the denim on his punished backside), so he doesn’t arch away from it.

"What do you say, Clint?" Phil prompts, a soft murmur against the archer's ear.

“Sorry.” Clint sags back against him, clutching at the arms that circle his waist as he draws in shallow, shaky breaths. "M'sorry, sir. I'll be good, I swear."

Phil kisses the sensitive patch of skin beneath his ear. "I hope so. I'd hate to have to give you another spanking on top of the paddling you've already got coming."

The archer freezes momentarily, breath catching in his throat at the mention of  _the paddle_ , which Phil seldom uses outside of heavy play scenes (preferring to spank Clint with his hand - which is certainly effective enough on its own). Despite the smuttiness of his daydreams so far today, he'd never anticipated that the paddle might make an appearance, but  _dear god in heaven_ , now that he knows it's coming he's practically salivating at the thought. 

Mistaking Clint's surprise for nervous tension, Phil's arms tighten around him briefly. "Clint?"

The younger man clutches at the muscular forearms but grinds his ass back against the very prominent tent in Phil’s pants, his actions belying the nervous, pleading quality of his voice.

"No, please," he breathes, limbs practically trembling with the strength of his desire, but unwilling to step out of character just yet. He still wants to be forced down. He still wants to fight every minute of it, even though he wants to  _want_  it, too. "Please, sir, I’ll be good. Don't spank me again,  _please._ "

Phil chuckles, the sound a warm rumble from deep within his chest, and it’s dark and teasing and _perfect_ and fuck, Clint’s doomed.

"Clint, sweetheart," Phil murmurs, amused, the warmth and confidence back in his voice again. "Surely you didn’t think a quick warm-up spanking would be enough to atone for your behaviour today? You’ve been a very disobedient boy. Saying 'no' to me, making a mess of the carpet," (Clint almost smiles at that - only in Phil Coulson’s world would a stray remote control count as a 'mess'), "fighting me about your punishment. You know I don't tolerate that sort of naughty behaviour from you."

Clint shivers anew at the n-word. It's a stupid, childish phrase, but it encapsulates his disobedience in a nutshell and makes Clint feel significantly younger and smaller than his Dom (which he is, to be fair), and that’s exactly what he needs right now.

The shiver turns into a full-body shudder when one of Phil's hands slides down a little lower to ghost over his erection, warm finger stroking down the length of him and teasing the slit mercilessly. Clint bucks against Phil's hold with a strangled moan, feeling the warm puff of his Dom's laughter against his throat as the older man presses a kiss there.

“I’ll take care of this, too,” Phil promises, stroking him. “After I’ve paddled the naughtiness out of you. And provided you ask me for it nicely.” He drops his hand abruptly and bodily crowds Clint closer to the corner until his nose is a hairsbreadth from the wall. “Are you going to stay here while I get everything ready? Or do you need another reminder about how to behave?”

Clint shakes his head quickly, realising a moment too late that this wasn’t an appropriate answer to either question, and receives a series of sharp, stinging swats to the tops of his thighs in recompense. He whines, rocking up onto the balls of his feet, hands pressed against the walls again for support.

“I asked you a question, little boy.”

“I’ll stay,” Clint promises quickly, and shifts his hips back an inch, worried about leaving a smear of pre-ejaculate on the wall if he continues to press himself against it so wantonly. “I’ll be good, sir.”

Phil’s hand strokes down from the nape of his neck to his still-burning cheeks, a brief caress, and Clint feels himself sag with the motion, weak knees going even more jelly-like. Phil puts steadying hands on his hips and kisses the side of his throat.

“Ten minutes, Clint. Starting now.”

He makes a whining noise in protest. One of Phil’s hands comes up to curl in his hair, tipping his head back.

“What was that?”

The sharp pinpricks of pain in his scalp are _amazing_ , and he swallows heavily, the angle of his neck making it more difficult as Phil’s gaze meets his own and his Dom arches an expectant eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” he quickly amends, voice rough. “Thank you, sir.”

Phil nods, gives his ass a warning swat anyway, and releases his hair. “Good boy. Fifteen minutes.” And he leaves.

Clint doesn’t pout. Much.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Subspace is fucking weird.

Granted, it’s pretty goddamn awesome too, but it’s also sneaky and entirely unpredictable. Like today, for example, it’s apparently decided to rob him of nine years’ worth of S.H.I.E.L.D training and render him entirely incapable of standing still for _fifteen fucking minutes_. Him, Agent Clint Barton, who’s known throughout the division as the guy who sits on rooftops and perches in trees and hunkers down on cliff-edges for _days_ on end waiting for a target. Durability and willpower are skills that he’s honed through long, hard years of field experience (he wouldn’t have made it this far without either attribute), but a few minutes into this enticing power-play game of theirs and his mind’s gone foggy enough that he can’t even remember _how_ to keep himself still.

The skin of his thighs is still buzzing with the rapidly fading sting of half a dozen warning swats, a final warning from his partner after Clint had fidgeted a little too much. _“If I have to stand up again, you’ll be going back over my knee”_ had been the calm, firm promise, which in hindsight had really only served to worsen his behaviour. Because a part of him (a rather loud, demanding part of him) rather likes the sound of that plan, while the part of his brain directly connected to his hind quarters is trying to reason with him logically. The resulting conflict only make his squirm _more_.

“You’ve still got another four minutes,” Phil informs him genially from the armchair, and there’s a rustle of paper as he turns a page in his book.

He’s not even reading it, the bastard. Clint’s not looking at him, of course (his Dom takes the ‘nose in the corner’ rule seriously, and if he has to serve another fifteen minutes here as further punishment for breaking it, he’ll _die)_ but this is a familiar dance between them and the archer knows that this relaxed, semi-domestic playacting is mostly for his benefit. He has to admit, there’s something undeniably _hot_ about Phil being so casual about disciplining him.

The thought makes him squirm anew, palms sweaty where his hands are still pressed against the smooth surface of the wall, and he leans his forehead into the triangular point of the corner, biting his lip when that only serves to direct his gaze downwards to where his jeans and boxers are still pooled around his ankles. He wonders if the pink flush from his warm-up spanking has faded yet. He sort of hopes it has. Phil never paddles him without a warm-up first, and he’s secretly hoping his Dom will take him over his knee again before they move onto harder play. Perhaps Clint should push him again.

“Sir?”

Another rustle of paper. “Three minutes left, Clint.”

“I know, sir, but…” Clint fidgets a little more, caught between the nervous fluttering sensations in his stomach and the hot pulse of _need_ that’s swelling even deeper inside. He turns his head to peer at his Dom, heat curling in his belly at the sight of Phil sitting so unaffected in the armchair, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Can I come out? Please? I said I was sorry.”

Phil glances up from his novel and arches an eyebrow. “You’ll be even sorrier in a minute if you don’t put your nose back in the corner.”

“But _sir_ ,” Clint whines, grateful for the opening, and feels a thrill of intermingled fear and victory when his Dom sighs and marks the page in his book. There’s a momentary pause before the senior agent lifts his head, and his smile is dangerously pleasant.

“Alright,” Phil agrees - softly, faux-friendly - and it’s the same sort of tone Clint’s heard him use on criminals taken into S.H.I.E.L.D’s custody when he’s oh-so-eloquently telling them how fucked they are. “Since you’re so keen to forget about the last three minutes, we’ll double it and use it as warm-up time instead. How does that sound?”

Clint sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening, and he’s not even faking the reaction. Sure, the fact that he’s already half-slipped into subspace helps, but the promise of a _six minute_ warm-up session over Phil’s lap is equal parts exhilarating and terrifying. Goodbye stoicism, that’s for sure.

“No, that’s okay,” he quickly amends, because very little is going to dissuade his Dom from following through with his threat now that he’s made it, and playing along with the scene like this is so fucking _fun_. “Three more minutes. I’ll stay here, I won’t move again.”

Phil gives him a fond, amused look, setting his book aside on the coffee table and rolling smoothly to his feet. “Take off your pants,” he instructs, pointing towards the fabric around Clint’s ankles as he calmly crosses the room. “Underwear too. Now, Clint.”

With another nervous thrill, the archer steps out of the clothing, leaning down quickly pick the items up and fold them neatly (Phil hates mess), setting them on the floor a foot or so away from the corner when his Dom gestures for him to do so.

“That’s my boy.” Phil reaches out to take his wrist in a firm grip, tugging Clint closer to brush a chaste kiss against his cheek before he begins leading him from the room ( _away_ from the corner, thank God). “Knew you were still in there somewhere.”

Clint flushes at the praise, pleased, and follows willingly, even though he knows he’s being led to the chamber of Certain Doom. Never has a man so cheerfully walked to his own metaphorical execution. Again, fucking subspace, screwing with whichever part of his brain is supposed to be processing logical thought.

Who is he trying to kid? Go screwy logic. Subspace rocks.

The paddle’s already laid out on the bed when they arrive in the bedroom, Phil clearly having unearthed it from their closet of toys when he ‘nipped to the bathroom’ shortly after putting Clint in the corner. It looks smaller than Clint remembers it; on first glance, he might have even assumed it to be it a harmless tool - if he hadn’t already experienced its bite first-hand, of course. In Phil’s talented grip, that thing is _evil_. Well, evil in a good way. Most of the time.

Phil doesn’t give him a chance to escape his fate (the archer wouldn’t have tried anyway, he fucking _needs_ this), never once loosening his hold on Clint’s wrist as he strides over to their king-sized bed and takes a seat on the edge of the mattress. Only then does he shift his grip to the archer’s hips and guide the younger man to stand between his legs. His expression is calm, his gaze unwavering as he looks up at Clint.

“You’ve been pushing me all afternoon,” he states, his tone somewhere between amused and chiding. “And judging by your recent behaviour, I’d say you’re long overdue a trip across my lap. Hopefully next time you contemplate disobeying me, you’ll remember how your ass is about to feel.” He tugs lightly on the bottom of Clint’s baggy t-shirt. “Shirt off and over my knee, little boy.”

Clint shakes his head, adamant, because this is the last shove he needs to sink into a headspace where the spanking is going to feel _good_. Phil’s faux-parental sternness is perfect, his words and his touch are everything Clint’s spent the morning daydreaming about, but it’s still not _enough_. He can feel himself hovering on the periphery of that hazier realm, his body humming with arousal, his head foggy and his thoughts clouded, but he’s still too centred to drop willingly. Mainly because he doesn’t _want_ to go willingly. He wants to be _taken._

Phil looks at him for a moment – quietly assessing his emotional state, as he always does whenever Clint needs to say ‘no’ in order to press the right buttons – and apparently the man finds what he’s looking for, because his eyes darken with the promise of imminent punishment and his grip on Clint’s hips turns demanding.

In a fraction of a moment, the senior agent has yanked the archer face-down down over his lap, Clint’s upper body pillowed on the bed and his legs dangling down over the edge of Phil’s thigh. A strong arm clamps around his lower back, anchoring him firmly against Phil’s midriff, and Clint barely has time to catch his breath after the shock of being so abruptly subdued before the first blow lands.

Clint’s breath explodes from him again in a shocked, pained grunt as he grabs fistfuls of the comforter, mouth falling open as Phil quickly builds up a steady, punishing rhythm. Like his previous corner-time session, there’s no slow build, no gradual incline from gentle to brutal. Phil seems to be giving it his all right from the get-go, and fucking hell, it’s awesome.

 _And painful,_ he acknowledges as an afterthought. _Ow, ow, ow, ow, **ow.**_

The cold shock in his gut at being upturned over Phil’s lap has fanned out right to his extremities, a shiver-inducing spike of arousal that perfectly complements the fierce heat that’s rapidly building his backside. His universal focus narrows down significantly, until the skin-on-skin slap is the only sound in the room (aside from his own verbal responses, which vary in both intelligibility and volume), and between the painful throbbing of his erection and the burning skin of his bottom, he’s hard pressed to decide which sensation belongs to which body part.

“I’d forgotten just how good you look like this,” Phil says conversationally, and there’s a telling hoarseness to his voice that goes straight to Clint’s cock where it’s trapped between the man’s clothed thighs. He drags his fingernails lightly over Clint’s cheeks, and _holy shit_ , he shouldn’t be allowed to do that. “Red suits you.”

Clint responds with an honest, intelligent _“Hnnnnugh…”_ and buries his face in the crook of his elbow, panting uneven, ragged breaths into the duvet. The nails rasp over his skin a second time, five burning trails that blaze across the curve of his cheek, and the archer chokes on another throaty moan, drumming his toes against the soft, carpeted floor in protest. Oh, his Dom is _evil_. Gloriously evil.

Phil chuckles as if to confirm the sentiment, but abandons this new method of torture in favour of resuming the warm-up spanking (fucking hell, Clint is warmed up plenty, thank you). Except this time it’s even worse (better) because the brief respite has allowed the buzz of repetitive slaps to settle, and the new swats feel positively scorching on his overly sensitive skin. He squirms desperately, and Phil tightens his arm around Clint’s waist in response (fuck yes), but his shaky, breathless pleas fall on deaf ears as his Dom picks up right where he left off, laying waste to the nerve endings in Clint’s butt.

Phil’s hand has always been sufficiently powerful enough to break him in the past, and he’s certainly feeling pretty cracked now. He also feels _incredible_ , in the usual _I’m-never-going-to-sit-again-but-life-is-good_ way, his legs too heavy to kick, his hands trembling a little with the strength of his grip on the comforter. And his backside _hurts_ , dammit. But it hurts so fucking good.

Finally there’s a momentary pause in the rhythm (it’s got to have been six minutes by now, surely), jarring Clint out of his stupor a little, and he stirs with a choked-off moan at the feeling of a warm, roughened palm stroking over his blazing cheeks.

“You’ve dropped pretty far, sweetheart,” Phil murmurs, his voice low and rich. “But I know you’re not there yet.”

Clint wants to deny it, wants to assure Phil that he’s already in The Zone and he can stop there, ow, please – but that goddamn masochistic voice in his head is rubbing its hands together eagerly, apparently oblivious to the hot sting of tears already building behind Clint’s eyes and the fierce, hot burn in his backside that’s going to make sitting difficult for at least the next few hours.

The cool surface of the paddle is a block of ice on his burning ass and he twitches, gripping the comforter tighter as Phil strokes it over his blazing cheeks, his heart pounding hard enough to jump halfway out of his chest as he awaits the first swat with both dread and eager anticipation.

“Colour?”

Clint has to unstick his tongue to get it working again, and even then the words are slurred, drunken. “Green. Green, sir.”

“Good boy.”

The first swat sounds like a gunshot in the quiet of the room, and there’s a momentary pause before the pain registers. It’s horribly, cruelly, wonderfully different to Phil’s hand; sharper, deeper, fiercer. It knocks the breath out of him for a moment, his legs spasming in knee-jerk reaction to the pain, but the second swat lands before he’s had a chance to suck in another lungful of air. This one’s equally as devastating as the first and _holy fuck_ , it hurts. And it’s perfect. And it’s _not enough_.

He throws a hand back, palm open, knowing that Phil will snatch it up and pin it to his side, and craving the almost-painful squeeze of the man’s fingers around his wrist. Phil doesn’t even mess up his rhythm, he just keeps on swinging like Clint’s interruption never happened, anchoring Clint’s wrist to his hip as his other hand ascends and descends in a slow, steady, awful rhythm.

The archer whines, a high-pitched, broken sound in the back of his throat, toes scrabbling for purchase against the plush bedroom carpet as the pain/pleasure balances seesaws alarmingly from one pole to the other. It hurts so bad, but he feels so good, and _fuck_ he’s going to come soon if it doesn’t stop. _Help_.

“I know,” Phil sympathises, even as he calmly paddles Clint’s undoubtedly crimson ass. “I know, sweetheart. You’re doing so good. We’re almost there.”

Clint tries to keep from rocking his hips, tries to avoid stimulating his already-throbbing erection, but it’s not an easy thing with the strength Phil’s putting behind every swing and the way his body’s automatically trying to avoid them. He sinks his teeth into the fabric of the comforter, trembling with the effort not to come, and it’s not until the tears cool and start to dry on his cheeks that he realises he’s crying.

 _Fuck yeah._ This is what he needs.

He’s not sure how long Phil paddles him for, but he goes beyond the _ow-ow-stop-please_ stage and sails right on into the realm of _yes-yes-harder-more_. He’s buzzing, riding an endorphin high, aware of the agony in his backside but comfortably distanced from it by a wall of foggy fuzziness. He feels _amazing_. And he’s a crying mess of snot and sweat and tears, but he’s in heaven, so who cares?

And then suddenly there’s a hand on his aching erection – firm, skilled fingers that drag up and down the length of him with confidence – and his coming with a strangled howl, head still buried in the crook of his elbow, body writhing over Phil’s lap as his muscles go into spasm. And those fingers keep stroking him through it, stoking the white-hot pleasure ever higher, until he can’t breathe, until everything just gets a little _too_ much and his consciousness _nopes_ out of it for a couple of seconds.

When the white haze fades a bit and the ringing in his ears finally abates, he finds himself slumped, boneless, against Phil’s chest where the man’s propped himself up against the pillowed headboard. There’ll be time enough later on to figure out how the hell his partner managed to manoeuvre him up the bed in the space of a few moments – there are higher priorities. Such as negotiating with his uncooperative limbs so that he can start wriggling himself further into Phil’s embrace. The man’s arms are wrapped around him tightly, Clint’s nose pressed against the side of his Dom’s neck and a large, gentle hand is holding the back of his head to keep him tucked in close, but he wants to _bury_ himself in Phil like his life depends on it.

“Hey, hey,” Phil soothes, and Clint realises belatedly that he’s still crying. Soft lips press against his temple, a lingering kiss. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” Clint’s face scrunches up a bit more, because apparently that’s his cue to cry a little harder (fucking subspace), but Phil just tucks him in closer and brushes kisses over his hairline instead. “Shhh. You’re okay, kiddo.”

And _ohhh, that’s nice_ the blissed-out part of his brain thinks even as the rest of him falls apart in his Dom’s arms. Because Phil’s rubbing his back with one big, soothing hand and telling him how good he’s been, how bravely he took his paddling, how proud Phil is. Clint would be squirming on the outside if he had the energy to move. Instead he squirms pleasantly on the inside, hiccupping shaky breaths against Phil’s neck, his eyes hot and damp and achy from crying as he blinks dazedly. He feels so good. And so _ow_. Yeah, no, he’s officially not moving for the next six hours.

“Still with me?” Phil murmurs after an undeterminable length of time, his fingers playing with the strands of hair on the nape of Clint’s neck.

The archer hums a sleepy acknowledgement, which turns into a whine of protest when Phil eases him away a little, enough to tip Clint’s chin up and meet his gaze. Phil’s eyes are full of warmth and affection, and that pleasant buzz in his skin sizzles again as his Dom leans in to capture his lips in a tender kiss.

“There’s my boy,” he murmurs, an echo of his earlier statement, his thumb stroking Clint’s cheekbone as he cups the younger man’s face. His smile is gentle, loving. “How are you feeling?”

Clint tilts his cheek into the touch, turning just enough to press his lips to the broad palm. “Good, sir,” he answers after he’s worked out how to get his voice working again. “ _Hurts_. But s’good.”

 Phil leans his forehead against Clint’s temple, and the archer can still see the gentle smile curling at his partner’s lips out of the corner of his eye.

“I need to put something on your ass,” he murmurs. “You’re pretty rosy down there, I don’t want you to bruise.”

Clint kinda _does_ want to bruise, if only to serve as a lasting memory of the magic that just happened between them, but he knows Phil isn’t fond of leaving long-lasting marks on him (with the exception of love-bites, which he applies to Clint’s skin on a regular basis, the minx).

“I’ve got a bottle of aloe in the bathroom cabinet,” Phil continues, and shifts as though to gently move Clint off his chest and onto the mattress.

The archer clutches at his shirt with renewed effort. “Hn-nn. Five more minutes.”

Phil huffs a quiet laugh, but obligingly wraps his arms back around his sub and drops another kiss against his hair.

“Alright. Five minutes.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extensive aftercare and more intimate 'playtime' in the next chapter. What? Good things come to those who wait, my darlings. <3


	3. Chapter 3

Phil’s fingers are positively _sinful._

Clint has been well aware of the fact for the entirety of their eighteen-month relationship, of course, and had suspected it long before their eventual hook-up, but he somehow always manages to forget just how _good_ it feels to have Phil’s hands kneading his recently-paddled ass like pizza dough. Either his Dom was a masseuse in another life or he’s some kind of miracle-worker, because Clint’s in _heaven._

He’s still sore, but the aloe lotion has soothed the stinging burn to a deep, even sizzle that runs from the top of his buttocks down to mid-thigh. He wants to push himself up on his arms and crane his head around to see it (the shade of red is bound to be spectacular), but that would require effort, and he’s too damned comfortable slumped boneless against the pillows to summon the energy to do anything more than hum in appreciation at every intimate touch.

Phil’s thumbs trail up the inner curve of his cheeks in a synchronised swipe, two warm palms resting on the meatier part of Clint’s ass, and the archer moans into the pillow he’s been trying to smother himself in, hips twitching in a fruitless search for friction as heat pools down below with renewed vigour. Apparently his dick’s forgotten that he only came fifteen minutes ago and that the rest of him isn’t quite ready for round two yet.

“That feel good?” Phil asks softly, as though the bastard isn’t fully aware of the exquisite torture he’s putting Clint through.

The senior agent swipes his thumbs back down again, a hairsbreadth closer to the sensitive crease, and Clint’s leg spasms a little, fists clenching in the bedclothes as he bites down on the pillow. He releases his padded mouthful again a moment later with a yelp of surprise as blunt teeth nip gently at the sensitive swell of his cheeks.

“You bite my pillow, I bite your ass,” his Dom tells him calmly, like it’s a completely reasonable thing for a guy to do, and _fuck_ , that ticks two of Clint’s boxes in one go.

“Sorry,” he says around a moan, hips shifting again as one of Phil’s thumbs dips between his cheeks to ghost teasingly down the crease. “Fuck, sir, _please…”_

“Please? Please what, Clint?”

Shit. Shit, there’s a smile in his voice. Clint is so screwed.

Drawing his legs up a little to arch his ass higher up off the bed, he pushes back against his Dom’s hands, turning his head to one side and peering back over his shoulder with a pleading look.

“Fuck me, sir? Please?”

Phil holds his gaze for a moment, heat and hunger and something deliciously dark stirring in his eyes as he drags a palm slowly up and down Clint’s thigh. Then he leans forward, bracing a hand against the area of mattress near Clint’s shoulder, and dips down to capture the archer’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss that triggers a minor explosion of arousal in the pit of Clint’s stomach. It’s hard and demanding, a far cry from the tender kisses Phil’s soothed him with since they began playing earlier that afternoon, and they’re both a little breathless by the time they break apart, sharing oxygen as Phil rests his forehead against Clint’s for a moment.

“Well,” Phil manages after a beat, the words a tickle of warm breath against Clint’s mouth, “since you asked me so nicely…”

And then he’s gone, slipping off the bed and moving towards their en suite bathroom. Clint whines, a disgruntled noise of protest at the sudden distance between them, and Phil chuckles as he pauses in the doorway to glance back at him.

“I’m not going far,” he promises. “Stay still for me. Deep breath in, count to five, release. Okay?”

Clint nods, curling his arms further around the pillow that’s supporting his head so that he’s almost hugging it and inhaling slowly, deeply, eyes trained on the empty doorway as he measures the seconds in his head. By the time he exhales, Phil’s already making his way back towards the bed, a soft towel draped over one arm and a bottle of lube clutched promisingly in his hand. Clint notices the fabric still selfishly hugging his partner’s torso and hips, and extracts an arm from beneath his pillow to reach for him.

“Clothes,” he grouches, tugging at the hem of Phil’s shirt as soon as he’s close enough.

“Clothes,” Phil agrees with a quiet smile, covering Clint’s hand with his own as he tosses the items onto the bed (they probably land neatly in a pile exactly where Phil wants them to, because life’s unfair like that). “What about them?”

Clint whines, a pouting complaint as he lifts his gaze to meet his Dom’s. “Too many.”

Phil heaves a put-upon sigh, but the warmth and humour are still there in his expression as he steps back to unbutton his shirt. Clint watches with a hungry gaze, wishing he had the mental and physical energy to push himself up off the bed and lend a hand, because undressing Phil is one of those boxes that he _loves_ to tick; being given permission to unveil inch after inch of skin beautiful skin, to chase the seam of the fabric with fingers and lips and tongue as his Dom’s body appears beneath it, to map the distance between faded scars and find comfort in their familiarity…

And yeah, okay. Maybe he has a deep-set need to _do stuff_ for Phil, an itch that occasionally needs to be scratched. And he’s a fucking lucky bastard, because Phil never so much as blinks twice when he finds Clint cleaning or re-organising the kitchen cupboards or hand-washing the laundry; he just smiles, brushes a kiss against Clint’s cheek, and tells him he’s a _‘good boy’._

“There. Better?”

Clint gives himself a mental shake before he can drift too far, and blinks up at his Dom with a sleepy grin, taking in the expanse of bare skin with hungry eyes. He lifts his hand to touch, pressing it against the softer swell of skin at Phil’s midriff (his favourite bit, not that he’ll ever tell his partner as much) just above the line of his boxer shorts. The older man’s hand settles over his own again, before Phil moves to perch on the edge of the mattress, one his other hand stroking over the back of Clint’s head, smoothing down his hair.

“I want to take you on your back,” he admits, stroking the hand down the length of Clint’s spine to cup the tingling swell of his buttocks. “Think your ass can take the friction?”

The archer shivers, pushing back into the hand as he nods quickly, not daring to break eye contact as Phil watches him. His Dom arches an eyebrow, lips twitching up at one corner, and lifts his hand briefly before bringing it back down again to land a mild swat against Clint’s rear. He grunts, jolting at the impact, which buzzes in the already-sizzling heat of his skin, belatedly recalling the rule about verbal responses (a rule which his brain seems to happily disregard whenever he’s floating on the edge of subspace like this, drifting in the wake of an endorphin high).

“Clint.”

“Yes, sir,” he corrects, his voice strained. “I can take it. _Please,_ sir.”

Phil gives into the smile, leaning down to kiss him again before moving to regain his previous position behind Clint, dragging a few pillows down from the other side of the bed.

“Lift your hips for me,” Phil instructs.

Curious, because he’d assumed that his Dom would want him to turn over first, Clint nevertheless complies without protest, warm hands helping to guide his hips to the right angle so that he’s supporting his weight on his knees, legs spread, but with his head and shoulders still smushed against the mattress and bedding. There’s movement behind him, then the stolen pillows are being slid between his waist and the mattress, the tickle of slightly coarser material against his skin indicating that Phil’s wrapped the top pillow in a towel to keep it clean (which is always a thrilling promise of exciting things to come).

“Much better,” Phil murmurs approvingly, dragging his hands up and down Clint’s thighs, spreading the archer’s legs a little more and unsettling his balance so that his weight is being supported by the pillows instead. The older man hums as he leans in closer, brushing his lips against Clint’s spanked cheek. “You’re still so red. Got to admit, it’s a good colour on you.”

Clint smiles into the pillow and wriggles his ass purposefully, eliciting a breathy laugh from his partner and a kiss further down, where cheek meets thigh. Then there’s the promising _shnick_ of the cap on the bottle of lube being opened and Clint stills, tensing in eager anticipation for the first touch of cool gel against his opening.

Phil doesn’t leave him waiting for long. Soon enough the pad of a slippery digit is circling his puckered entrance slowly, spreading lube back and forth across his sensitive skin, and it’s a good thing that Clint’s weight is being supported by the pillows rather than his legs because his limbs tremble even at that first light touch, nerve endings still overly sensitised after his recent endorphin high. He moans, hips twitching, as the finger breaches the outer ring of muscle and slips smoothly inside, closing his eyes as it pumps in and out a few times in a steady, careful rhythm that matches the gentle caress of Phil’s free hand where it strokes his thigh.

Soon one finger becomes two, sliding in pad-upwards and scissoring at the deepest point of penetration to stretch against his inner walls. It feels _amazing,_ but Clint’s still too blissed out from his drop to respond as vocally or enthusiastically as he otherwise would, his verbalisations limited to moans and whines and the occasional, breathy _“please”_. Phil’s work is slow, meticulous, unhurried - that bastard. And Clint loves him for it. He’s dropped far enough that he doesn’t need restraints to anchor him to the bed when Phil delves deeper until he finds the sensitive swell of his prostrate; just the weight of his Dom’s hand resting on his lower back and a soft, warning _“no, Clint”_ is enough to stop him from bucking when skilled fingers crook against the his innermost centre of pleasure. The towel makes sense now, he acknowledges dimly. There’s no way the pillow would’ve survived this level of milking without permanent damage being done.

“You’re doing so well, sweetheart,” Phil murmurs, when Clint’s gasped and whined and squirmed and begged his way through what feels like _hours_ of exquisite torture. “I could do this you all day; the noises you make….God. You’re beautiful like this.”

Clint feels another swell of pride and pleasure at the compliment and tender praise, and the prospect of being at Phil’s mercy like this for a whole _day_ is enough to leave him shaking, gasping wetly into the sweat- and tear-dampened pillow as three fingers crook against him again teasingly.

“Please,” he whimpers, grinding down and pushing back and needing _more_. “Please, sir, I-I can’t…I don’t-”

“Shhh.” Phil leans over him, bare skin pressing warmth into the cooling sweat on Clint’s back as lips brush against his neck. “I know. It’s alright, I’ve got you. I’m going to help you turn over onto your back, okay?”

Clint nods, breath hitching on a half-sob as the fingers slip free, leaving him devastatingly empty. But then strong arms are shifting him with ease, flipping him over quickly and efficiently, the rougher material of the towel scraping against his spanked rear as the pillows keep his hips raised at an angle. Phil wipes off his fingers on the edge of the towel, then leans over him to steal a kiss, his free hand gently spreading Clint’s legs further apart so that Phil’s hips can slip between. The man must have divested himself of his underwear at some point, because the damp head of Phil’s cock bumps against is eager entrance a moment later, and Clint barely has time to suck in a hitching gasp against his Dom’s lips before the hard length of it is pushing resolutely inside him, Phil’s hands coming up to hold his wrists down either side of his head as his hips meet the hot swell of Clint’s ass.

The older man holds still for a moment, his gaze searching Clint’s face, before his grip on the archer’s wrists tightens and he starts to thrust slowly. Clint’s a goner by that point. He’d been a goner the moment Phil grabbed his wrists to restrain him, but the angle of penetration (his hips positioned in such a way that each thrusts hits that innermost sweet spot) and the slap of skin-on-skin against his already sizzling rear culminates in a crescendo of sensations that his body’s not in a fit state to process at his current level of mental awareness.

So he’s pushed out to sea again on another wave of endorphins, left floating there where it’s warm and fuzzy and feels _so damn good_ , conscious of the sensations encompassing his body but no longer connected to them or in control of his basic motor functions (or his vocal chords, judging by the obscenely pornographic noises he can distantly hear himself making).

“Yeah, that’s it,” Phil murmurs, and as ever his voice cuts through the fog clear as day, albeit breathy and ragged in a way it only ever is during sex. “Just look at you. Fuck. You’ve dropped right back down again, huh?” A fierce, breathless kiss against his slack mouth. “Good boy.”

Clint can’t quite figure out how to get his tongue working properly again, but apparently there’s enough instinctual motor control left that he manages a desperate, tearful whine that sounds something sort of like _‘please’_ (or near enough), because he’s _this_ close to coming and he needs permission first, it won’t be worth anything without Phil giving it to him, but he needs to, _fuck,_ he needs to…

Phil’s thrusts grow shallower, faster, rougher, the grip on his wrists tight enough to bruise (or so Clint hopes), his Dom moaning hoarsely above him with every shaky exhale. A pulse of warmth deep inside him, a harsh grunt from above as his Dom stills, buried to the hilt. Then finally another desperate, biting kiss to Clint’s bottom lip, and the archer opens his eyes enough to see Phil’s face above him, cheeks flushed and pupils blown, watching him in return with absolute devotion.

“Come for me, Clint.”

Clint does.

It’s a few minutes before he _does_ anything else, the world a hazy, pleasure-filled vortex of fuzzy sensations and murmured endearments. He feels unpleasantly empty all of a sudden, but before he can grieve the loss, he’s being rolled over and pulled against something warm and solid, secured there by strong arms which wrap around him like vines. He slumps into the hold with grateful abandon and lets himself drift, because he’s fucking exhausted and he figures he’s earned it. Besides, Phil doesn’t seem to be in any particular hurry. And cuddling’s always a bonus.

Eventually the world tilts again and he slides back into his body more fully, sensation returning to limbs he’d previously given up on, although the distant buzz of subspace hovers within his grasp, a blanket of security that beckons him even as he resolutely blinks his eyes open and rubs his cheek against the bare pectoral its resting on. Phil’s hand stops stroking his back briefly, sliding up to card through his hair instead.

“Hey there, pretty boy,” Phil murmurs, the words a low, fond rumble through the chest beneath Clint’s ear. “You back with me, kiddo?”

Clint smiles sleepily at the familiar endearment, tilting his head just enough to kiss Phil’s chest by way of an answer. Phil shifts a little, another hand moving to gently tilt Clint’s chin up until the Dom can meet his gaze. Phil’s thumb strokes across his cheekbone, his smile full of tender warmth as the archer blinks back at him with a dazed contentedness.

“That’s my boy.” Phil thumbs away the drying tear trail from the corner of Clint’s eye. “Feeling okay?”

Okay? Clint’s high on his own biology and now he’s getting cuddles. He’s much, _much_ more than ‘okay’.

But communication is still proving to be a tricky obstacle, so he decides to forego the effort of unsticking his tongue and puzzling out his vocal cords in favour of smiling drunkenly at his Dom, hoping that it’ll be enough to make the sentiment known.

“Ah,” Phil chuckles with a smile of his own. “That good, huh?” He drops a kiss against Clint’s brow, smoothing his hair back down. “Close your eyes and take a nap, kiddo. You’ve earned it.”

No arguments there.

 

 

 

……………………………………………………………………

 

 

 

 

“Owwww,” Clint whines, shifting over to roll onto his stomach again with a pout.

“I tried to warn you,” Phil calls through from the adjoining kitchen/dining room area. “See what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

Clint props his chin on his arms, hugging the couch cushion close. “Didja have to hit me so hard, sir?”

“I’ll happily give you another dose before bedtime if you keep whining,” his Dom warns, but it’s an empty threat and they both know it.

Clint quietens all the same (still pouting, naturally), and turns his head to the side to glance at the TV screen where _Doctor Who_ is on pause mid-invasion. He feels more alert after taking a brief nap, but he hasn’t come all the way up yet, his reflexes still sluggish, his body still craving Phil’s touch. His previous itch has been scratched in the sense that he no longer feels the urge to act out and be disciplined in return, but the need to gain approval and please his Dom is still there, albeit buried beneath a familiar post-scene headspace where he feels a little younger and more vulnerable than he normally would. It’s a place he’s only in recent months begun to identify with – somewhere he likes to go after particularly intense or lengthy scenes, where he subconsciously craves a more specifically tailored period of aftercare.

It’s nothing too complicated, thankfully, and as ever Phil knows exactly what he needs: food, physical contact and reassurance. And sci-fi shows seem to help, too.

“Scoot,” Phil tells him, returning to the couch with a tray of food, which he sets down on the coffee table. It smells _awesome_ , and Clint obligingly pushes himself up onto his knees so that Phil can sit down again, slumping against the man’s side the moment his Dom’s butt hits the cushions.

“Am I allowed a beer?”

“No.” Phil’s arm comes around his shoulders, lips brushing a kiss against his temple. “You’re drunk enough on endorphins as it is.” He gestures to the tray of dishes. “You want a plate of your own tonight, or would you like me to help?”

Clint chews on his bottom lip, debating the issue internally. He’s still pretty far down, but he doesn’t feel in the right frame of mind to be fed, not tonight. Cuddles, yes; feeding, no. Although eating from a plate himself means sitting properly, and sitting means _oww_.

“You can kneel and use the coffee table to eat, if you’re worried about your ass,” Phil offers, a smile in his voice, and Clint grins at him cheekily.

“Are _you_ worried about my ass, sir?”

Phil arches an eyebrow at him, his amusement evident. “Little boys who backtalk don’t get dessert.”

“Shutting up.” Clint steals a quick kiss, then slips down from the couch onto the floor, settling comfortably on his knees. He passes one of the loaded plates of pasta to Phil, then grabs a fork and digs in eagerly to his own meal, gaze refocusing on the TV screen when his Dom hits plat and Amy Pond resumes running through the alien garden away from the evil medical robots.

He stays on his knees long after he empties his plate, leaning back against the couch and curling an arm around Phil’s lower leg, resting his shoulder against his Dom’s knee. Phil’s hand moves to settle in his hair soon after, and it stays there for the rest of the episode _,_ fingers rubbing against his scalp gently until Clint’s got his cheek smushed against Phil’s thigh and his eyelids are drooping and he’s entirely lost the plot of the episode.

In the end, he doesn’t get dessert. But only because he falls asleep before the credits roll.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Remember to let me know about any specific D/s-related kink requests (or any Phil/Clint scene requests). I hope this ticked the boxes for some of you! xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my dear readers, several of whom requested a story where Clint wanted it a little rougher. And I added a slight hint of miscommunication, for the reader who wanted to see what would happen when Phil didn't read the signs straight away - as you can see, Clint doesn't cope well. Luckily he knows how to be a brat. ;)
> 
> Chapter 2 will be posted in a few days! Thank you all for reading. <3


End file.
